sofa
by wegotmonobaby
Summary: Moriarty and Sherlock have a conversation. Complete.


Sherlock flexed his wrists, and sighed. Glanced at his captor.

'Did you really have to use something as everyday as cable ties? Am I that unworthy?'

Moriarty barked a laugh, turned his black gaze from the book he was reading. 'Crimes of opportunity don't often lend themselves to whim, dear boy. I'd love to see those skeletal limbs encased in any number of materials, Sherlock. Hemp, leather, steel. Fishing line. Razor wire. But we can't always get what we want.' he crooned that last part, and for once the reference wasn't lost on the detective. 'You like the Stones?' he asked, head cocked to the side, lips slightly apart.  
>'I like everything, Sherlock. Everything. Of course, I hate everything too. But you have to know something really well to hate it properly. As well you know.' he resumed his reading, and Sherlock sighed again, loudly.<br>He was bound with his wrists behind his back and his ankles crossed. He had been dumped on the bare concrete floor, his weight awkwardly balanced on his hip. He'd been taken from the flat, though how and when escaped him. He'd definitely been drugged, at least ten hours earlier, as he had the nauseous rolling stomach and skittish thoughts of a comedown. He was pretty sure he was in a basement, the air was frigid and the walls were damp, mould colouring some of the brickwork.

The room was square, no furniture bar a ridiculously plush and out of place red sofa, which Moriarty was sprawled across. A quilt hung over the back of the sofa, and a plastic Waitrose bag rested maybe a foot away from Sherlock's head. The criminal mastermind had obviously planned ahead. Sherlock snorted.  
>'Crimes of opportunity obviously allow for a brief shopping trip and a hasty journey home for your quilt.' Moriarty looked up, and his smile was almost, almost worth the dull ache in his hip and the tightening behind his eyes as his drug induced headache took hold. He didn't respond though. Just stared at him, smiling, then turned back to his book.<br>_The Idiot._ Sherlock had never really cared for Dostoyevsky, but could see how the man would appeal to Jim.

'I'm cold.'  
>Moriarty sighed, a harsh, impatient noise. 'I'm reading.'<p>

Sherlock wriggled, tried to alleviate some of the ache. Rolled onto his back and pushed his hips into the air, arching, stretching himself out. Dropped back down, glanced at Jim, and the man was watching him, staring at him. His book open on the arm of the sofa, face down. 'Don't pretend an audience is something that'll stop you, Sherlock. Do carry on.'

Sherlock said nothing, working his ankles together and twisting his wrists to try and encourage blood flow. 'I thought you were reading.'

'Yeah, well. A dead Russian hardly compares to a live genius.' Moriarty smiled, and flicked the paperback onto the damp floor. The book landed haphazardly, the page lost, the card cover sticking to the damp stone. The man's smile morphed easily into a smirk, and Sherlock laughed, angling his head so he could watch Moriarty's reaction. 'Are you trying to impress me, Jim? Is that what all of this is about? "Look how easy it is for me to kidnap you? I'll drag you away to a basement and pretend to read whilst you die in a spectacularly boring and long winded fashion on a cold, damp concrete floor because I am an evil genius?"'

'What more could I possibly do, Sherlock, to impress you?' Moriarty righted himself on the sofa, stood, started to pace. 'I did so much for you. Everything I did was for you, for us, to keep us entertained. To meet you. To be near you. I blew up buildings to get your attention. I killed for you. I organised such intricate games for the two of us. And you're comparing all of that, all of my theatre and grandeur, to me slipping you flunitrazepam, carrying you to my car, and driving you to our current location? Seriously Sherlock, why do I bother?'

'Well if it was this easy, I'd say, don't, in future. Though I must confess to preferring your previous methods to our current arrangement. Bar the whole... Swimming pool unpleasantness.'

Moriarty dropped to a crouch just behind Sherlock's head, causing the detective to roll and lean on his arm to see his face. 'Is that what you think? Really?' The man was too close to the detective, his tone too soft, and for the first time since he'd awoken in this fetid basement, Sherlock wished he wasn't tied up. 'I don't mean the 'meeting you' part, Jim. I mean the 'John's arm nearly getting torn off' part.'

Moriarty leaned right in, past the limits of Sherlock's focus, and whispered in his ear, 'was I worth it?'

'Yes. _Yes._' Sherlock's reply was instant.

Moriarty got up, reached for the Waitrose bag. Took out a pair of scissors, and smiled at the panic in Sherlock's eyes. Reached for the detective's slim wrists, and dug the blade of the scissors in between the white flesh and the black cable tie. Sherlock yelped as the blade cut the skin, and Moriarty shushed him, smoothing his thumb across the red smear, pulling the plastic free. He repeated the motion on Sherlock's feet, and the man sighed in pleasure as his limbs were freed.

They sat in silence. Moriarty on the sofa, Sherlock at his feet, back resting next to the criminal's legs. 'You didn't need to do this, you know. You could have just told me.'

'I did. I am, now. I wasn't sure you'd be very receptive.'

'I couldn't ever deny you anything, Jim. You know that.'

'We were made for each other, Sherlock.'

Sherlock met his black gaze, and smiled at the intensity there.

'I know.'


End file.
